


Everybody's Afraid of Something — I'm My Own Worst Nightmare

by Roxis



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, But Then Again...This Story Exists, Can They Give Her a Damn Break?, Character Death, Eh...Kinda?, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fear, Fear of Power, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, I'm terrible at tagging, Illusions, Loss of Control, Love, Love Confessions, Magic, Near Death Experiences, No Beta—We Die Like Quicksilver, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Romance, Scarletstrange - Freeform, Slow Romance, So I'm a Hypocritical Dumbass, Strangers to Friends, Teacher-Student Relationship, Violence, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Wanda's Been Through A Lot :(, lots of hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roxis/pseuds/Roxis
Summary: Simply, she's a bad omen. From which those accursed powers contribute to her becoming a representation of a walking disaster. With luck and chaos like that, why else did her brother die?No more.No more deaths on her. No more from her hands.To win, there comes a loss; No more powers.The Scarlet Witch is no more.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff & Stephen Strange, Wanda Maximoff/Stephen Strange
Comments: 24
Kudos: 44





	1. I Begin to Fear, Then Life has Never Been Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SupercalifragilisticexpertwritinBullshit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupercalifragilisticexpertwritinBullshit/gifts), [tinyvessel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyvessel/gifts).



> The lack of content for this pairing is a crime that must be righted. Kinda surprised how little fics there were when I dove head first in this ship. 
> 
> I've said this before and I'll say it again, I wasn't close with Marvel, much less the comics. So I like to thank my friend [SupercalifragilisticexpertwritinBullshit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupercalifragilisticexpertwritinBullshit) for helping me with some interesting ideas and facts and the overall brainstorming. It got me closer to these two idiots. Give her kudos, she deserves so much of it :D
> 
> Here's to hoping we have more content after the release of DS2. (And for this pairing to work wonders in the movie.) Until then, this should sustain some of us hungry scarletstrange fans.
> 
> Also, I know Wanda got over her fears of her power in Civil War. But that direction wasn't added for the sake of this fic, so expect a bit of ooc.

She thinks this will be her new life now — it's as close to her regretting hours prior that she banded with Steve Rogers.

Cameras are on her ceaselessly, as if afraid the straight jacket and shock collar does little to suppress and neutralize the threats of the Scarlet Witch. She's also sedated, for safety measures. Again, re-emphasizing she is less than unsuited in taking down the very small, very empty cell. Save for the table and bed — her predicament limits the full value of either object. Her isolation is another of their ploy. Away from the associates of very experienced individuals more than likely to bring one hell of a fight if the opportunity comes to light, except, maybe the man that grew an additional 60 feet. She can't say for him — his gadgets confiscated and he's more or less unfitting in battle.

At least he's funny — Wanda finds him amusing, comedy relief, and criminally innocent.

She regrets that maybe her decision in choosing to side along with the Star-spangled hero was rather narrow and not well-thought-out. Her runaway with Barton was rushed, as was blasting Vision 20 feet under Stark's property in an attempt to release the helpless archer. A cognitive mind would perhaps land her in somewhere less tight and in less constraining outfit — her hands are immobilized that it itches for the littlest movement, as its purpose.

Wanda thinks again. She takes back her regret.

She looks again at the camera and smiles — unaware if it's the effective sedation or just her mock at the man on the other side. Almost looking deranged. And it's as close to describing what a man Thaddeus Ross is, the obsessiveness of power and control to which is his undoubted motive.

Whereas she has that power — only missing the other aspect.

The limitations of her room would allow her to only think. Like a child that did wrong, not given the time of day to justify and present a rational explanation for their actions, sent to their very rooms to think of what went wrong and what they did wrong. She's only allowed to think. And that's already scary in itself.

Because her mind leads to places — some to the memories she internally suppresses from the anguish of it all. Others to guilt-filled horrors, like seeing the dead of eyes from his speedster of a brother, bullet holes littered in every inch of his chest. He says it's her fault.

Wanda hates it. Hates the nightmares.

Nevertheless, she succumbs to the fears.

Swallowed whole by the darkness.

There's little she can do — little she wants to do. Stemming from the control loss. And only havoc is the path to which she wanders aimlessly; absolute chaos, if you will.

Simply, she's a bad omen. From which those accursed powers contribute to her becoming a representation of a walking disaster. With luck and chaos like that, why else did her brother die?

_No more._ No more deaths on her. No more from her hands.

To win, there comes a loss; No more powers.

_The Scarlet Witch is no more._

~~~~~~~~~~

"We're _free._ "

The word itself is deceitful, false and a mock to her vocabulary. Nothing is ever free; and if so, the inevitability of consequences is only stalled and halted for the remainder of whatever time Wanda hopes she has in her moment of desperate runaway. She once believed it — in the unshackle of control. Sokovia Accords happened. The rift in the Avengers happened. The isolation and imprisonment happened. Wanda doesn't know anymore.

Nonetheless, the word is the closest to what she's feeling right now. In an aircraft, stolen no less, Wanda relaxes her aching muscles.

Natasha leans into her shoulder. "In a sense. Believe it or not, _vigilante_ doesn't sound all that great."

Wanda is happy to let her. The inconvenience of the other woman in her opposing side of the war buries a hole in the already established bond she shares with the Black Widow. In her days, those glorious before Lagos, it'd been the redhead she would gravitate towards for the single reason that she is another of the same sex in an otherwise whole male team. Majority of her years were attempting to befriend Natasha, albeit through the punches she hurls in the Monday to Friday afternoon training session. Dinner was on her on Saturday and Sunday. Unjust was it that she was pitted against her. 

"What's out there for us?" Wanda inquires. Near hopeful there was a rather solid fix to what is already an in-too-deep wound. She's aware and knows too much now; nothing will stay the same as it was just days ago. Still, doesn't hurt to be told wrong and not try at it.

Time flies fast, thinking now.

"I don't know," Natasha admits, her sorrow discernible uncharacteristically. "Wanted the family to remain intact. But Barton wants to return to his own. So does Lang."

Wanda hears family. The only one Natasha has, she realizes.

"And what about him?"

She means the captain, of the plane and of the one branded to have America in the alias. Steve steers the vehicle, Sam remains his wingman in the many senses of the word — be it in piloting, in duties and obligations, or in life and friendship. Out of those captured, the expectation of their extraction from the imprisonment of the highly-maximum security penitentiary was the highest from the Falcon. The archer was the close second, now slumbering with Scott across the women.

Coming across the understanding of Steve Rogers in his morals and way of life is easy for Sam. It's the easiest for Natasha — and between the two, it's not considered to be a contest anymore. So when she pulls a smile, one seemingly sad but whole in a way, Wanda hunches that their story is not concluding at its finale. Far from such a tale.

"He's still insistent on doing good. Just not with the shield." Natasha says so — Wanda misses the details that he came in lacking the iconic cover. It's a wonder whatever happened to the signature that makes Captain America so Captain America.

"And not with the team." Wanda reminds her.

"I'm with him." She admits. "Wilson too. We're still in this — whatever it is." Her hand gestures towards them in loops.

The almost silent offering of another member in their secret unit of justice nearly passes by Wanda, given away by the pleading and hopeful look of her comrade when she tilts to look beside. It's as close to a heart-to-heart request coming from Natasha, and not many get the opportunity to experience one out of her. She's closed off, even those of her close circle.

Wanda admits the offer lacks the temptation her friend puts highly in regard. That maybe Romanoff was a tad late in asking her to join them and continue what it is they stand for, where if Wanda was appealed the same wordless offer, in which it was before her naivety washed away, she might have said yes. She might have complied. Instead, in that little girl's place, is a matured woman of understanding that nowhere was it considered her inborn powers to be that of a blessing neither miracle. Coming to life out of the passionate nature of resentment — Wanda recalls it from her hatred of Stark. Nothing born out of the negativity can be seen as good-natured as intended.

Perhaps, in another life, her cluelessness would have matched like that of before.

"Not me," Wanda confesses. "People see what I do with my hands and they start bolting the other direction."

"It doesn't matter what they think." Her friend tells her.

"It matters what they _fear._ " Wanda corrects. 

Natasha refutes the accusation, yet fails — opens her mouth for the preparation of contradiction before it shuts slowly upon sinking in Wanda's word. There's hardly a say that defines how wrong Wanda is; not after the airport, not after Lagos, and certainly not after Ultron. Though time heals wounds, it's the scars planted by a girl that unknowingly was a crucial role in a genocide act. Not as easily erased as the papers then. Articles spread of Wanda — of the controversial invitation to put her inside the team, so soon after too. It was Clint's idea. Back then that seemed to be the only problem.

Now, she juggles between her own ordeal of self-despair whilst escaping from the reality of detainment. The origin of fear incarnation becomes victim to her own source. It's a tragedy at its finest.

"Where will you go?" Natasha redirects, disappointment not yet cast away.

Wanda ignores it; humming innocently in the thick accent for minutes, she weighs her options — of which she crosses in mind where the obvious no-entry territory should be. And of which she thinks she could live life in normalcy, or how much she could try to make it that way. 

"I’ve always wanted to go to the UK. Scotland sounds nice."

"And how will you survive? Financially."

"I have you to support me monetarily," she said simply — sounding like it's the most obvious shit in the world.

"I'm not your sugar mommy," Natasha objects. Odds are, it's almost certain Natasha becomes exactly that. "Alone?"

Wanda has no one; maybe for the better that there are lesser with the uncontrollable, psychotic super-mutant as the papers say. She can't help but agree — Wanda ignores the question again. "Thinking of dyeing my hair."

Natasha grins, distracted. "Trying to remain hidden? Go for blond. Always wanted that colour."

She shakes her head, chuckling. "Maybe amber."


	2. I Lived Telling the Tale, Not One Worth Reminiscing

She goes buying groceries, and living necessities, and a lot of the food she calls sustenance in the probability she botches instructions of her cooking recipes; overall, much-needed essentials so she remains a functioning human being — For just another week, Wanda hopes. Before the 7 days are up and she visits the supermarket again, in the noon to the after or the bright morning depending on promotional opportunities. Before the following week subsides and the cycle of her routine repeats.

It's her conventional normal now for what has been a year and more — Wanda is satisfied if not content.

Natasha sends her the minimal amount, under Wanda's request to give no more than enough for the duration of weeks, on occasions of a potential delay in allowance, months — through the anonymity of hidden bank accounts that Wanda receives her money without the paranoia of being tracked. Romanoff sends her more, sometimes, as extras for her to buy something she wants. Wanda laughs because she doesn't put values on objects, and it's only expenses that come with the small, rented unit of her apartment that she only ever needs finances for. It speaks about her issue of keeping in touch with her belongings — she fears in due time of the confrontation that will have her leave her valuables.

Wanda purchases hair dye, and colour contacts — blue, in particular. And some inexpensive accessories, which is likely what Natasha meant all along.

Her hair is amber currently, as she once suggested. Covered with the hood of a merchandise sweater she picked up somewhere forgettable — the extent of her spree in shopping anywhere from the bonus allowance by Natasha. Wanda rathers the usage of her bills on something such as payments and other useful items. Or she buys herself small consumables, instant ramen, and all the like of nothing near luxurious. And some must-buy woman products.

Wanda doesn't think twice about clothing, or expensive jewelry, or any trendsetter for that matter — it's inconvenient all the same for Maximoff. Natasha would agree, though, she is the least likely to divulge in such a subject.

Wanda thinks that's how she was influenced.

Regardless, she gets her flowers when Natasha visits, which is a rarity if Wanda is incredibly honest. But Natasha came to provide the comfort of company twice — bringing chocolate fudge in with the apparent change of hair colour that turned her into a blonde. Wanda says she likes it, understanding of her reason to demand the colour alteration.

But they don't call — phones can be traced and located in the specifics of a given signal. Not that Wanda ever uses much of hers, to begin with. So, she picks up on writing but retracts the idea from the assumption of the ever-changing addresses she will have to catch up regarding Natasha and the team's whereabouts. One can only assume the endless travels everyone is undergoing.

She hears of them from television news — once spoken from in Brazil and the next week in Canada. It's a hassle to keep up.

Wanda is glad, for the most part, for her friend's journey. The loneliness creeps up on certain occasions. Natasha suggested buying a cat — she thinks the idea is far from being the worst imaginable.

She picks up vegetables on the vegetarian aisle — some broccoli and spinach to the dismay of her unhealthy diet — concluding the few residuals of her mental grocery list. There's a check-out counter in the far end of the market that Wanda walks to without further inner deliberation, free of ill-mannered buyers with complaints of inaccurate pricing in their purchases. The lady behind her register plasters the signature greeting smile, intended towards customers for the motive of adding another coin in their donation jar. Wanda spares a few, the cashier looks delighted with her aid.

The self-service aisle is free, she realizes, and Wanda kicks herself for not having been observant in the matter. But she doesn't have that many products to scan. Wanda thinks it's okay.

The thought drops unceremoniously given that the employee gazes at her intently, slight fear in the eyes and her mouth producing small gasps of terror. Wanda is stricken; if the guise of her dyed hair and colour contacts fails to do its purpose of hiding her true self, especially to the franticness of the woman in front, her cover blown due to facial resemblance, it is unfortunate of the highest degree. And back to the R.A.F.T., she goes.

But stricter rules and regulations, all to maintain better security of their most threatening fugitive.

Wanda can wipe her head — an option, a _solution_. Erase the lingering thoughts of her and everything regarding, as though Wanda never once existed and encountered by the woman behind the counter. It can go further, _beyond_ ; command the attendant to perform actions all according to Wanda. She is but a measly servant, if anything, to a mighty one. Just one say — a few words of encouragement — Wanda can make it happen, make sure of the safety for herself. Make her commands without much of any consequences.

_Make herself feel powerful again._

Wanda dismisses the thought — lest she abandons herself in the process. Lest what she fights for internally has been for naught, forsaken over careless and luckless actions. She doesn't go by anything but _Ana Frank_ , ordinary woman with lost loved ones that supply herself without apparent employment.

The passing of time that had the green of her eyes transitions to red is not ridicule, a year that went without the practice of her damned gifts — she's proud of the progress.

So, despite how the woman grips Wanda's hand tightly, with little care nor decorum, she refrains from her abilities. Wanda can't do much, or rather won't. And truth be told for her, it's a fine thought as she prepares for the sudden impact about to be unleashed by the regular employee of the place — the woman whispers, in proximity to her ears.

"Ma'am… Do you realize you're being watched?"

Perplexed, her eyes widened. Words not expected to be said.

"Don't look directly at him," the monitor connected with the cameras is presented beside, her finger pointing to a man with shaggy blond hair. Aisles away, yet the panic hits her still. "I've been noticing him following you ever since you entered, watching from afar, do you know him?"

The fear of her expulsion is washed away, now replaced with the anxiety of an unsuspected stalker. Wanda thinks they're both equally upsetting. "No… I don't."

It's almost comical, how the woman's features look more frightened than the one stalked herself. "Do you want me to call security?"

Logically, _yes_. But she's a fugitive, as Ross once put it in the eyes of the public much to the many mobs that protest on such ideas of Steve Rogers being anything near that description. Wanda is no Steve. She's no Captain America. No avenger, as far as the topic concerns — It reminds her of the time she destroyed a city and bombed a building. They're not as accepting of that fact.

"Um, no, please," she stutters for reasoning. "I- I don't know the man but I don't want to cause a scene. Do you have any other exits?"

The employee points behind vaguely. She displays a face of puzzlement, with apprehension combined, but puts the last of her items on the paper bag anyway. "There's one in the storage, it should be unlocked."

Wanda drops the cash hurriedly, hoisting the bags. "Thank you, keep the change."

Far from the first time where thoughts repeat in her head about the service of her powers. And plenty of times was it followed by the detachment of such an idea. Because doing so reverts her back to the fears — She'd like to stop living in fear, for once. For a day, an hour, or maybe even a minute of unconcerned assurance.

She makes haste with the direction, passing through the crowds of the busy store — to which there is little doubt she'll be easily followed. Only until she opens the steel door, where she catches a breath of air, the sunlight hitting her face quickly.

…Wanda stumbles on her stalker outside.

It's surprising, to say the least, almost dropping her bag she'd been pressing to her chest to prevent any fall when she rushes outside. Still, it's pointless, when she realizes he catches up to her almost as effortlessly — he's almost impassive, not as raggedy with his breathing as Wanda is. It's frightening.

"Stay back." Despite it all, she wills herself to not use her abilities.

He looks confusedly, mildly. And as per her request, steps a bit behind. "I'm sorry for the scare, but do you not remember who I am?"

Frankly, no. But his voice is reminiscent of one such familiar associate.

"Vis?"

The android nods.

~~~~~~~~~~

Wanda buys them coffee, for apologies, and also for her daily dose of caffeine.

"You look more…" she searches the description of his drastic transformation. " _...Fleshy._ "

Their table strayed far from the rows of seats and is cornered in the shadiest of the café, but it's under her insistence of staying low and unnoticeable even through fake aliases. Vision doesn't really care much for it. 

"I do certainly look like one of you now. Stark's progression in technology is rather efficient and useful that way."

She sips her macchiato, looking the way Vision glances at his fidgeting arms. The way he picks his drink — the caramel macchiato, her exact order due to his indecision of a small beverage — twirls the cup, smelling its fragrance. Hesitating just slightly from drinking as he blows into the heated cup. He'd come off as originally a human, to her and the world, had she not been informed the truth of his form.

Wanda settles down her drink, "You look like you're blending in."

"Not one such as yourself," He comments, points towards the writing on her cup. " _Ana Frank."_

His hand mimics hers — placing the cup, fingers grazing hers when he sets it atop where her hand laid.

He means her persona, how much changes she places into consideration when coming out to the world fully different. Her accent is another, she'd lose how much of how she used to sound it fools herself until she recalls this alias is nothing true but a made-up one. It's a norm when one is hiding, Wanda needs adjustment.

She retracts her hand slowly, folding it. "How'd you even find me, Vis?" 

The answer clicks soon — because Natasha is damn good at keeping secrets. As a spy should, that it's practically in her blood and description that she hides things well, in accordance with years of training and experience and the art of espionage. She's answered herself. "It's Natasha isn't it?"

Vision sighs and leans back into his chair. "Miss Romanoff has requested me to seek for you, in case you've altered your decision."

It almost _boils_ her, but she keeps the alarming frustration to herself — Natasha means good, to those she chooses personally to keep in touch. It's not seen that way, sometimes. And it comes to their own, individual problem; it wasn't seen that way, hence the need for the outsider's view. Natasha is loyal to a fault, and almost accusingly aware of the good for a person better than the person is for themselves. She thinks Natasha is a good wake-up call. Wanda supposes it's fortunate she's a friend — there's no mandatory order to follow her, though. Because, luckily, her right to choose is still accessible.

"You can tell her nothing is changed." Wanda drifts away, eyes witnessing a pair of siblings outside the café. It brings her back to when Pietro and she are in those definite ages of no more than tweens — when he says having her was an ass but shields her from the bullies in school. It's a good reminder to her of her insistence to remain inactive. "Why are you even here?"

She doesn't mean it in manners that wants nothing close to relating to him, or that a fire is burning when the android is in her close range. His face looks hurt, like an injured stray. She thinks despite his physicality as nothing but mechanical — he conveys and understands the nature of living beings better than that, if not, of humans themselves. It's a compliment, really. And it gets her thinking he doesn't deserve the harshness, even when their past had them at odds against another.

Still, he confides it to her.

"I've chosen to join Captain Rogers."

It's sudden, and truth be told, she doesn't understand. But Vision lives for the sole duty of protection — literally programmed inside of him to be a guardian; protector of the best from what can be expected of them. The Avengers. It's a travesty he wasn't with Steve sooner, rather later. They're a good pair, believe it or not.

"That's new," Wanda says, missing the thought of a more proper response.

"It is." Vision admits.

"What changed your mind?"

It'd have been easier, for them at least. They have reasons and it's in the past — doesn't make her want to grind reasons for his choices any less.

Vision sits straighter, earnest of his upcoming responses. "Upon further reflection of the event transpiring a year, one month, and twelve days ago, my judgement was clouded by my duty to protect the team and you."

"That's it?"

She comes off as prying, as a non-believer. But she wants better, deserves something better.

Vision follows, "I also am a product of Mr. Stark, the same as Ultron. I hold some accountability in the events with what happened in Sokovia, though you may not believe it. Mr. Stark wasn't in the right position to deny the accords, I sided with him in the same sense."

She doesn't find sense — that anyone directs such blame towards the apocalyptic incident to anyone other than her. Yet, Vision feels that way, if anything, as did Stark. 

"So you'll be travelling with Steve now," she reached her cup, mild blowing against the steam. "Don't think Tony is going to take that lightly." 

"I left him a note, should it suffice."

She smiles, fondly enough for a first. "So you're off the grid as well?"

"Come with us, Wanda."

It brings her back, somewhere grounded. She can almost hear he means himself, _me_ , in replacement of the other word. His eyes, hopeful of the slightest consideration that she moves on, succeed over her inner turmoil. It's optimism — he's developed remarkably in this area of human understanding.

But he's not her; _can never be her._

"I'm sorry, but I can't," Wanda pauses, returning a stare of her own commitment. "I _won't._ "

"Which is it?" 

"Won't. I'm tired, of the fear, of the power that it holds me more than I hold it." Her statement is firm, tenacious against the opposing force staggering to attempt returning her origin. "This thing inside… is _chaotic_ , it's destructive and the last thing we all want is another Sokovia incident. So, no more, Vis. Because I can _feel_ it, growing stronger every passing day. It haunts me."

His tone remains as it is before — hopeful with slight faltering. "I would believe Captain Rogers might have a way to fix the issue."

She stands, almost unexpectedly. And she'd like to tell him thank you and about. "Sorry, Vis. I'm the horror they chose to picture me as, but I don't blame them. It's my decision; no more powers, no more fear. It's what I choose."

Wanda drops her tip, hastily after eyes from strangers begin to follow their barely audible conversation. Her bought goods are picked up, indicating her too soon, too quick departure.

"And how about what we choose?" 

Vision is all the things that represent marvelous, positive, and splendid in the world — a truth to which she can stand to testify. Wanda doesn't think she is, as though she's the contradiction to what many think as safety and protection.

"You don't want me, Vis."

She leaves, abruptly.

~~~~~~~~~~

The rain hits almost suddenly, and Wanda recalls having left her umbrella behind due to the weather predictions — It's the last she'll ever trust that station particularly. But her apartment is within walking distance, and she'll have to ask for an apology to the clerk for the soon to be flooded floor. So she hurries her pacing, almost tripping from the slippery slope of the street.

There's a group of hooded individuals as she turns the street — males, mostly from the five. Taking in her appearance when she moves around, making much space for the avoidance of physical contact — either to respect personal space or the unwanted sensation of nearing them creeps her. 

She's right to call her judgement.

When one grabs her instantly by the hand, Wanda flinches before another covers her mouth entirely by his palm — averting screams of distress as Wanda is dragged to an alley, further from potentially wandering passersby. 

Her bag drops to the floor when hands are locked in — two of them hold one each, and she's brought down to her knees. One of them growls at her, female.

"Give us your fucking money!"

Wanda is drowning ever more in panic and fear — such that she finds herself immobilized. The woman hits her, punching her that it left a mark undeniably.

"I said give us your fucking money!"

She beats her again — as if senseless violence makes the better exchange, rather than the cold, calming threat of one such life — Wanda tastes blood, which she figures her tongue having been bitten accidentally from the blows, or her teeth awfully misplaced due to the aggressive force. Still, Wanda says nothing.

Her aggressor picks up Wanda's intention, frustration palpable more so after. "So you want to make things harder for us!? Then, what do you say to _this!?_ "

Now, bleeding eyes looked below — a glint of a small steel surface from which the woman holds, reflecting the lights from above; a knife, a pocket one, under her possession and gripped intently with malice and grimdark purposes. It wakes Wanda up — like freezing water splashing anyone in a state of slumber, cold and unexpected; a cruel call to reality. Wanda's eyes are wide, and it's the first time her jaw stutters from how truly afraid for her life this invasive confrontation has become. Her options aren't ample, but it's wishful thinking she has one to begin when she recalls that she is captured in a hold.

It's the first in a long, long time where Wanda truly resides to the idea, possibly submitting to the possibility — she is going to die, ditched in a place not commonly traversed through.

"Didn't expect this, huh?" The woman plays with her knife like playing with food, confident. She spreads the flat surface of the knife on Wanda's neck, and it's psychotic. "Too bad you didn't talk sooner."

Wanda wished for many things — importantly for the better treatment of life towards her physicality and mentality. It's never granted, as proven when her neck is exposed much more, Wanda's head pulled back further by the hair when they yanked the threads. Her eyes close, surrendering.

"Die!" Then, she hears the woman scream.

It's a _fearful_ one.

The knife hangs above, unmoving throughout how much the woman tries in pushing it to slit Wanda's neck. But there's a glow of scarlet that surrounds the object of harm, encircling the small blade before the metal bends abnormally — it twists and turns, splits itself in two as it elongated and wrapped painfully on both the woman's arms like make-shift handcuffs.

Then, Wanda's eyes open — it's a deep, _bloody_ red.

Those holding her are pushed back — a shockwave of crimson to the two that had the gall of holding her down; they hit their particular side of the wall, to which they continue hovering by their necks, resembling someone choking them in a hold.

She hears the others in their pack scream; there were two idle throughout, but they were with the woman. With her attackers. It fuels Wanda's inner fire.

"She's a freak!"

One says so, the other screams profanities, on the situation and on her. But now they're where she was mere moments ago; scared enough that it spoke to their soul of the imminent deaths that will transpire. It's enough that they began running where they came from, all three of them. The two in her locks, she drops them harshly. Unconscious already upon landing hard.

Wanda processes the minutes that passed. Only then did her eyes convert to the blue of her contacts. Her stomach churns, unexpectedly, and violently where she spews the contents of what she stored in — out goes her favourite caffeine with mixtures of her basic lunch, spilling excessively to the ground. Wanda doesn't feel good — and not only is it from her injuries.

But the drops of her rain-soaked bags are picked afterward, like nothing much that occurred. And she forwards immediately to her location — unless someone unfortunate realizes two unconscious men in an alley, as unlucky timing as that is, leading to possible charges and reports. Wanda takes no chances.

She arrives home, disregarding the concerned look of the desk clerk that questions her wellbeing as she punches her floor level of the elevator. She makes it to her unit — safe and secure.

It's none of that in which Wanda feels. She locks the doors, her back leans to it. It's proper preparation, and she takes it in now of her near-death meeting, of the broken unworded rule to refrain with the absolute certainty of any of her capabilities unleashing at full force.

Like it's unleashing hell, and unleashing the triggered memory of what she tries desperately and painfully to not become.

But it's too much, too late — Wanda Maximoff is back.

She lets herself cry.


	3. Bitter

She sees almost nothing about her when she searches her name, none of which that dates near the present or that of this year compared to the ones prior — which is highly fortunate, given the accidental circumstances that had led to her pressing the ice block to the blackened, bruised skin.

Though those displayed on it's most searched are of her and Sokovia — trailing her story with very credible information and evidencing pictures, some she wasn't aware were close to existing even before. Her indent trails the screen as a picture of Pietro pops, a good memento of the appearance he takes — she presses download on the low-resolution image. A keepsake, more or less.

There's a theorist among the searches that she absent-mindlessly clicks — he gives speculation to how she's under a new alias, living amongst the many unattentive people in the streets. But it's clear his sources are misdirected — the man says she lives in Brazil now, with an image of a wandering tourist, hair purple and her outfits fitted to only bluish-green. Wanda smirks; the woman looks nothing alike.

It delves into debates; the comments are rude, some lacking proper manners and consideration of human empathy. Others are typo, or grammatically lacking when they type in hurry to present their voices. But Wanda sees that not so much would care for her as they do Captain America or some of the other Avengers, which prompts her to return to her home screen under the intense toxicity of the section. There's a small base of supporters for her — that is scolded heavily under supporting a sociopathic terrorist.

She mentally notes to never search herself again.

So it's to the gallery she goes — her downloaded image of her brother brings Wanda to smile, even through the aching cheek. Wanda sets it as a wallpaper, so she sees him more than the years she spent recollecting his facial structure. It's hard to remember, harder to delve back into his murder. They gave him a burial, one proper enough even through odds of what she'd done with him against the Avengers. She thinks that's when she began appreciating.

But they ask her to return it with her service — which is expected as it is surprising. There's little to do with her abilities apart from the recommendation and suggestions of using it for humanity's sake; justice, simply put. And she accepts, if only her back isn't targeted in a moment's ignorance.

Clint Barton is a kind man; voluntarily siding with her in protection, be it against harmful profanities or authoritarian agents claiming to take her. She sees him the way he sees her — it's muted understanding between the two of them that Clint treats her in a paternal demeanor and she thinks it's the misunderstanding that she looks younger than the actual age claims her to be. Or it's his way of paying back — Clint refers to Pietro's sacrifice numerous times, and sometimes, she sees his way of protecting her in return. Wanda acknowledges he'll be present should she need it, in the seconds she reaches for him.

He's not here now, not bandaging her scrapes. And she likes it that way.

Clint offered her a room, a bed, a roof on the top of her head; the missing sensation of familiarity Wanda and her brother were undeservingly robbed of, as children of ages that fall in the dependency rate no less. And she can only decline the temptation of such a special invitation. He has family, he has Laura, kids of his own. She'll ruin the rarity of a special, functioning family dynamic — he deserves anything but a falling out, especially under her causes. Clint says he and Laura are happy to have her visit, the kids as well — Wanda isn't sure of the magnitude of that truth, but she thinks Laura is as compassionate and motherly as a loving parent should be. Wanda wonders if his kids are anything like her and Pietro.

The bandage is running out — Wanda contemplates visiting the pharmacy. If so, the inevitable run-in with the clerk is approaching, which leads to a description of her bruises. Unfortunately, her clerk is too caring that it becomes privy. Undoubted questions arises from her observation yesterday, and Wanda rathers she wouldn't need to explicitly specify the ordeal; a mug with a numerical advantage against her has lesser excuses to explain the goods not robbed or the minor marks of the injury, as opposed to being dead already in the streets.

She checks her shopping bag for her wallet, citing the last she'd seen of it. It's not there. Wanda freezes because she's absolutely sure she drops it carelessly inside. But it hits her the bag was dropped, around the alley of her near-death experience.

 _"Blyat!"_ Wanda curses in her first language.

~~~~~~~~~~

"So, you weren't wrong, there are traces of residual magic lingering around here."

The portal encloses, orange sparks of light vaporizing. "That burst of energy wasn't trivial, so it seems."

Wong masks his face for hygienic purposes — the stench is horrid, as is the mixture of rainwater with rubbish waste. "Yet, you were all the way in New York when you sensed it," his other hand fans away the smell. "This is, well, _here._ "

The cloak acts mutually with Wong — apprehensive of its lengthy cloth to even touch any of such foul odor objects like it was ever blessed with the sense of smell to begin with. Or touch, even. Stephen brings it along because they came like a package, or so Wong says. Despite it's randomized behaviour that deeds it like an exuberant pet. 

While reluctant, Stephen inspects it here for their initial reason for traveling. There's a crumble of bricks at each side of the wall, he notices shortly after. "Any ideas on what you think happened?"

"No clue," the librarian speaks. "You think Mordo might be involved?"

"Last I checked, he wasn't in Scotland, nor was there any magic practitioners near the area for him to prey on." Stephen continues the inspection, grimacing. "Blood."

"The victim's?"

"That depends," he is lucky to have been thorough, lest he misses the clue under some puddle. It's a wallet Stephen finds that he picks up the drenched identification, "Any idea who Ana Frank is?"

"Let me see."

He takes it a second without waste, identifying to his best the woman plastered to the card. His features darkened, surprisingly. _"Oh shit-"_

It derives him from his search. "So, who is it?"

"Wanda Maximoff."

The name sticks to him — a muse to research on.

~~~~~~~~~~

Wanda decides it's her worst week ever — and it's only been two days.

And she can't turn back her time and effort spent searching for the missing essential. It's 3 hours on the alley, added the traumatic paranoia of what happened a day ago triggering her flight responses at the sudden sound of just about anything would imply that Wanda did not have a good time. 

It also means she's apparently poor and her fake-to-begin-with identity is lost — which means calls to cancel her card, calls to report a stolen valuable, calls to verify that she is her other identity and not someone that earns the bane of almost everyone — mostly, internet people. All of them would have her testify who she is really. The certainty of one, at the very least, recognizing her through the almost-clever cover is starting to weary her.

She hates today.

She walks back to her apartment, a hand to wave at the front desk rises habitually — it's empty of her greeters. Odd, but not unusual. It's not yet a Thursday when staff members gather to discuss ethics and their motto. Simply, perhaps, it was scheduled early.

Her elevator doesn't work, she presses the button in repetition before groaning and submitting to the exhausting work of climbing the stairs. Her floor is not quite high, but still grimacing under the effort it'll take before her destination is reached. She does so, regardless.

Wanda makes it, and she decides that sleeping will be her priority starting now. Her door opens — she's unsure suddenly.

It feels… something _separate_. An example of those spot the differences — Wanda swore her carpet of red was stained, or that specific inanimate objects are misplaced, unlikely her style nor decision. From memory, her plates should have been left in the sink and unwashed — it's gleaming, instead.

The assumption entering the wrong room gets her first, but debunked due to her stuff still being hers. And the keys used worked with little error. Her room number is the exact same.

Wanda enters the room — with only a little reluctance, as the possibility of stepping into illogical traps are still plausible. Or either, someone had the decency to enter in without consent and tidy her place spotless — it's a nice change if Wanda is honest. But she doubts the blessing or the gesture of a kind act. Room service is excluded from the perks of living in this apartment specifically.

The gesture is good to be true, as she likes to say.

It doesn't explain whatever occurred, if so.

But Wanda remembers she's weird, her brother is fast, Steve Rogers is a fossil, Bruce Banner is a hulking green being from a nuclear blowout, and Thor is a literal god; unexplainable occurrence isn't far from the day's norm and standards. 

Wanda speaks of it, "I know you're there, and I know this isn't my place so you can come out now."

Nothing happens. 

Wanda would've laughed at her absurdity or her comedic thought that someone is behind the changes — growing ever so slowly into insanity. But her mind pauses the action; the setting is deteriorating — walls melting and floors crumbling, rows of bookshelf fall under blackened void on the ceiling before closing in. Her furniture transforms, and she sees them turn into glass containers, accommodating seemingly precious artifacts. A large, oculus window brightens the room, and the presence floating in her front.

"What gave it away?" The man asks, if only amazed at it.

It catches on that she was right, unfortunately.

"A hunch," she answers. The man is noticeably older, given the strands of grey on each side of his hair. But not so much in the age where wrinkles are becoming apparent, more or less only a decade her senior. But he comes down, descending carefully with the cloak roaming in the air that makes her question if he's even remotely human. His eyes are green like hers, gazing at her like one intrigued by something new. She follows, "So, mind telling me why you made a replica of my room?"

He looks at her curiously, sighing. "I've brought you here because I have questions for you."

When she looks at him, it's nothing but perplexed. "Where exactly is 'here'?"

"New York." He answers so boldly.

"There's no way this is…" Her reply is haste, aware of the impossibility. A look through the glasses shows Stark's tower, the Avengers tower, a mark of her coordinates. The streets are busy, she sees the buzzing plaza when she looks closer. "...New York— How?"

"Let us talk about it. Tea?"

A blink and she's sitting properly across him, cup in hand. There's no qualm in the beverage, but mediocre at best due to personal, and most likely, biased opinion.

"You have coffee?"

It's her exact request of brew as she looks back to her drink, the smell of caffeine hits her, surprising. 

"How did you—"

"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange," his voice cuts through her abruptly, intent on pressing before further questions are disembarked. "I've heard stories of you, Ana Frank." Her lost identification card is shown, revealing it in his hand-covered gloves. Wanda knows now why it remained lost, it paints on him a bad image after 3 hours of her time wasted. "But that's not who you really are, is it? Brilliant disguise, but tell me, who are you really?"

The obligation isn't there; little reasons are there to explain why it must be that Wanda confirms her identity. He'll call those trying to catch her, he'll call _Ross._ That's her thought. She spins her cup repeatedly, the air of secrecy leaves her, pointless to persevere in the act of hiding oneself. She sips a taste before answering.

"Wanda Maximoff."

"Ah, yes, I know that," the card twirls under his fingers, Wanda sees it changing. "But my question stands. Who are you _really?_ "

The letters change, rearranging themselves in her identity. It spells out her name — the illusory of it has Wanda aching in confusion. "What are you saying?"

"You, along with many others, believe in a varied range of culture and religion, but that is like a drop of water to an ocean." A table floats towards their middle, Strange drops her card, displaying the fixed alphabetical corrections to her name. He continues, "It's surface level, since ancient times, there exists the study of knowledge beyond just the mere understanding of what most people are conditioned to know. As you may call it, magic, I call it the mystic arts."

His fingers sparkle, drawing lines in the air that joints simultaneously in creation of archaic and mystical circles. 

"I'm confused," an understatement, if she will. "What does this have to do with me?"

The sparks of his rings disperse, each blaze of light morphs into multicoloured butterflies. Wanda thinks the imagery is beautiful, a spectacle of rainbow surrounds her, flying above and beyond.

He sees there's a twinkle of fascination in her eyes, the green of it catches the many colours soaring above them. Stephen goes back to the topic, "I keep a record of any issues that intertwine with the usage of magic, sometimes they may cause catastrophic levels of danger, others a cantrip accident." He sees her, and thinks of the irony she's like anything he's about to say. "You fall on the first."

Her allure of the splashing colours dropped, replaced slightly with fear she's unaware of the cause of. Wanda interjects, "That's impossible, I've never touched magic in my life."

"Yet, you're brimming with magic energy," he pauses, her hands grip the cup in anticipation he notices. "A _dangerous_ amount."

"...How can that be?"

"As I've said, I've… looked into your history. I believe your powers are the cause of this paranormality."

Wanda sips, a lenitive motion from the ensuing uncovering of overwhelming revelations — her mouth opens, shutting soon after, this repeated in several amounts. Her eyes look away — her focus is on something else in her memory, nothing in the present. She opens, ultimately.

"But I haven't used them at all."

"That may be true, it doesn't change the fact that you have untamed power." 

She watches him conflict internally, the creasing of his brows tells he's in deep thought or consideration. It's a lengthy pause that grows her internal anxiety — should she be marked as a weapon or enemy of the earth, she doesn't like dwelling the concept. Moreso, due to her unfavoured judgement of her powers being close to a hindrance and a nuisance of her simple understanding that Wanda Maximoff is a human. Because humans don't explode with a wave of vibrant red, they don't levitate as if originating from basic structures of human anatomy. She's anything _but_ human. 

"So, here's a proposition, allow me to help you channel this power."

She peers — the statement is shocking. It lacks anything that regards with having her detained.

"How so?" Wanda asks him with genuine curiosity — any offer of relinquishing the same thing that makes her special, a sort of erasure of her name from the list of those being hunted, it's an offer she would worth risking.

He gestures to the books. "Whether or not this could prove to be efficient is still a mystery, but I suggest you could begin training in the mystic arts. I know a place called Kamar-Taj, you can learn the basics."

The answer is disappointing — nothing near shortcuts to dissect her attributes away, rather enhances it in the most mystifying ways. Wanda is a believer of all sorts — except of childish fantasies or entities meant for the fun of it all from parents who knows better to give their child the joyous times of their lives. Those of which she refuses to believe now, like the man that travels around the world sending gifts to kids of the purest heart, is a testament to her maturity. That'd she grew out of phases; dives headfirst into the harsh truth of the world.

She thought of magic — the parlor tricks of bunny out of the hats, or the optical misdirection of simple card maneuvers, all of them when she was a toddler, it was captivating. Wanda is older now, magic is unreal, until just moments ago. But now, of all times any golden opportunity arises, never in the right time were they in her benefits. 

A vow was sealed — inside her own conscious. That normality is her goal; she plans to keep it that way.

_"No."_

Her reply catches him off — his head that rested above the hold of his hand jolted, complete shock.

"Excuse me?" His reply is fast.

She inhales, ready.

"Who is to say my inactivity wouldn't lead to my powers becoming null over time?" Her offer of an answer is reasonable, if only used to conceal that she grew bitter of her powers. Wanda doesn't say the latter — it's most likely to be misunderstood. "No harm comes if my abilities aren't there to begin with."

"Yet you'll still be a catalyst of very dangerous energy."

Her reflection in the coffee is shown when brought closer to sip on. She wonders if he sees what she sees — a haunted look. "One that's broken."

He blinks, she sees the growing irritation. "So, you're telling me that you choose to stay powerless — stay in lack of control? Over the decision of grasping control of your abilities?"

She shrugs, like it's nothing. Always has. "I'm still alive so far."

There's fire ignited, tested by her fuel of stubbornness to disregard the very warnings sought out by him. But he huffs, audibly, shoulders slacking in utter hopelessness. _"Fine._ Have it your way."

"Is that all?" There's a sitcom Wanda recalls wanting to watch before the night falls — as to serve her a light mood after what was a defining, informative day.

The pause is there again. He's considering.

 _"No,"_ His tone is harsher, evident that she'd cause the dissatisfaction, or that his duty is made harder. 'I'm recommending you to stay here momentarily."

Wanda pauses before she sips the residue of her coffee, the brown remains at the lowest surface of the cup. It's bitter, Wanda means at his suggestion, not the beverage itself — because he is obstinate with his pursuit of her, though to her liking, has the decency to ask permissions so it's consensual. Alternatively, rather than abduct her. But then again, she's in New York now.

"With you?"

He doesn't take offense, Wanda sees. The temper is still there, though. "In the sanctum, as of right now you're _choosing_ to remain a danger," Stephen emphasized sourly. "And, unfortunately for both you and I, I'm the only one capable of ever preventing the dangers of it. So, stay and I'll keep watch over you."

Wanda isn't eager, much less enthusiastic about sharing living space. She'll mostly have her room, or at least she hopes that would be the case. He's objectively in the right, Wanda thinks after.

Under her goal of normalcy, is the drivenness of preventing casualties, bordering the line of her intentional goals — that through no more intervention with her powers, can she finally fulfill her objectives.

Wanda looks at him, judgemental eyes boring through to the facade of irritation — he's as annoyed as she is. But for the sake of it all...

_"Fine."_

He seems settled with it, standing hastily.

"Then we agreed, follow me to your room."


	4. Not Terrible

He believes there are pieces in one's life no person would bargain for despite attractions that warrant almost everything else utterly meaningless — too substantial, too much worth weight in beliefs, objects, or another individual. Stephen Strange likes his morning, much to any other's opinion on parting with their bed being very unbearable. The setting is commonly quiet, undisturbing from any irregularities, which is an opportune moment to read himself books without a sliver of annoyance — spellbooks more often than not, affirming his ever-so-close status that rivals with his once-was teacher. 

He's intelligent, that much is generally known, like a fact that must be stamped on the forefront of a book. He's driven, for causes that gradually adds more knowledge to his already boundless, superior intellect. Perhaps, he finds that is why he was accepted in the Ancient One's circle — she intends him to be the best of them, he accepts the challenge without a second of doubt or hesitation.

For this reason, is why Stephen Strange likes his mornings, unlike what is the majority. But in this instance, one of possibly many that might transpire, he doesn't say he revels in it.

It's not appeasing — the crash of cabinet doors and drawers when she closes them from irritation, mixed with confusion and her own recurrent of mumbling 'empty' at each search in the kitchen cupboard. Because, if Stephen Strange is direly honest, the whole set is a display more than it is an operational kitchenette — it came along with the interior decor of the sanctum, and it is, for the most part, a decor. Excluding the excellent plumbing and stove. But Wanda doesn't know, thus why she finds the emptiness of each kitchen storage and some missing fundamental cooking utensils. She's annoyed, and in return, so is he.

"Morning." He mutters, almost exasperatedly.

The greeting is a genuine shock — flinching as her head hits the table when she ducked down to search deeper in the bottom cabinets. It makes him chuckle over the graceless act.

"Morning…" her hand rubs the apparent bump spot — the damage is obscure compared to the other terrifying bruises on her face. "You do realize that your fridge and practically everything else in your kitchen is empty, right?"

He brushes it off, impractical. "Any request for breakfast? And please, make do with the simple ones."

Her comprehensiveness of the situation hits quickly, grasping awareness and he sees her visible shoulders relax over the matter as though there's nothing to fear.  
It's magic, plain and simple. And he finds it's the answer to the bigger parts of everyday struggles.

"Some plain omelette would be nice," her suggestion fits his criteria. "And maybe coffee?"

It takes no more than a second before she's sitting, across his own arrangement — a plate of the demanded goods with her burning coffee. She's perplexed by it all, and she needs adjustments, if not a great deal of adaptability that magic is somehow more real and not one easily crumbled with science. There's history, she would guess, mixed with the folklore that entails of how deep magic was alive for — she is heavily uninterested in the pursuit because he guesses it's connected with her powers. And only heavens know the great length she'd go to keep them locked.

Wanda picks a piece with her fork. "This is safe to eat?"

Stephen is only reminded of his own disbelief when he was no more but a student. And he supposes that comes as a package when being welcomed to the cathartic world of sorcery and spells, "Unless you're allergic to egg, butter, and tomatoes, I don't see why it isn't."

It's at his words that she believes; sampling the tiny proportion of their breakfast. He deliberates internally if she's as naive as they come, or she's gullible enough that she believes him without much of a thought. Stephen thinks that's a bad trait, if any.

Her face shows satisfaction, as in the dish is to her liking — the delicate method in the way she slices her omelette and carefully sips her morning caffeine without much care to the other presence in the table, completely absorbed in her breakfast. Either she's clearly carefree, or it's that she has no opinion on the man sitting across. But he watches her, for examination purposes as he likes to think of it — and she catches his eyes, looking.

"Not hungry?" She speaks when he still watches her seconds after. "Or must there be some sort of mandatory magical practice before I feast on food?"

He shakes in dismissal, "No, just… it's been some time I had a meal in the morning with another presence. It's been longer since I ever actually lived with another person."

"Me staying here was your idea," she remarks, half the attention on her nearly finished food. "But if me being here bothers you so, imagine it as if I never was here."

He doesn't say more — Stephen dines in his meal instead, averting idle conversation because she says it so herself. That he can situate himself in his home solely with him alone, that she'll be heard sometimes in the background but nothing more than small voices in the corner of the room — only if she stays adamant with locking her powers internally, that Stephen isn't much of help nor will help, for that matter, lest she gives in her effort to partake in some development.

But she goes back to her dish, and Stephen to his own — so he relinquishes that it'll stay like this momentarily until changes occur. Or he steps in when catastrophe strikes, whichever comes first.

"Strange!" The acquainted voice calls him, Wong entering the kitchen. "Have you resorted the issue with the-"

He pauses in midst of everything — words stopped from spilling further, as did his stunned expression with his walking that ceases as if turned stone immediately. Wong gapes at Wanda, then continues to look at Stephen, before returning the attention to Wanda — Stephen signals a gesture to let Wong know to play along. 

"Sorry for the interruption," he collects himself quickly, "I'm Wong."

"Wanda Maximoff." Her attention unfazed, still nibbling the remains of her breakfast.

"Ah, yes, our… guest apparently." The emphasis was not missed — he sounds disappointed. "Strange can we talk privately?"

They leave her be, only to the next room and Wong ensures no disturbances — his voice is low, like in near hisses.

"Please, tell me you know what you're doing for the sake of us all."

Stephen's answer is simple, yet it wouldn't feel like it — because events occur and calamity strikes; as if one obligation wasn't enough, he receives yet another ill-fated commitment. "She's living here temporarily."

"Oh _fuck_ you don't know what you're doing."

The offense is taken. "It's the best solution that comes to mind."

"Either your mind is insane or you're incapable of understanding the gravity of the situation." Wong mocks him, as he does when Strange breaks rules. Not officials, more of unspoken rules of shared agreement to detach either from reckless abandon, from dangerous stunts. From catastrophic methods and plans that drive towards disastrous reactions. "You're bringing _her_ in the sanctum."

"She's refusing help, refusing her powers." Stephen still watches her, Wanda has yet to cause abnormalities. "At the moment she's keeping it in — best I can do is be within her range to prevent any problem from escalating. We still have no idea what magic this is, too risky if we try anything on it."

"We're playing with fire. You sensed that disturbing magical energy."

"Yes…" He extends an arm to ready the motion, sparkling dazzles of crimson that displays alternate locations through the ring. "I need to visit Kamar Taj and find anything about her or any semblance to it. Conjure her something for dinner."

"Wait! Strange!"

He leaves unapologetically.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stephen concludes hours of historical and magical search that belongs under the house of other-worldly spells and factual antiquity to be anything beyond helpful when Wanda Maximoff is at the topic of his inquiry. In Wong's words, and honestly his, _'It was a waste of fucking time.'_

He sees her again at night — the kitchen is turned to that opposite of morning. A plethora of components for dishes she knowingly picked as he sees Wanda moving through the kitchen skillfully, lacking any tense difficulties over any station of the kitchen. The momentary puzzlement has him stopping from processing, due to unrecognized ingredients scattered in all places of the kitchenette, alongside newfound equipment he never thought to put to use. It's when their eyes coincide that she's the first to speak.

"Hey."

A pondering brow raised, "You're… cooking?"

Her stirring of the bowl halts and the aroma of the kitchen overwhelms him when he breathes in. "It was better than nothing, I supposed, and I checked that the stove and everything else was working so… here I am."

It's the availability of these ingredients that questions him of how she got them to start with — there's a store nearby that he passes through in his infrequent travel of the area whilst patrolling every few often. Maybe she went out. Of course, it alludes to her having left sanctum, which he wonders where Wong was during the duration. Then again, she never was a prisoner. Nor was Wong in the committal agreement to prevent, or even interact with her slightly at his own volition. "Did you buy these?"

"With my money, yeah."

Still, he is puzzled, awkward of their predicament that prolongs a weird silence — though not explicitly mentioned, it should come along that her presence is his responsibility in the haste moment of Stephen asking Wanda to be under his heed. He has yet to do that, yet to provide except during their morning, and only then was he awake due to the havoc she makes from those cabinet doors. He recalls ordering Wong a task, so Stephen asks her of his friend's whereabouts.

"Did Wong not come to conjure you a meal hours ago?"

Wanda shakes her head. "I'm hungry, and I don't know about you but I made more than I bargained for."

The timing is perfect — a momentary growl sounds the room and Stephen remembers he has yet to fill himself with dinner. 

"I can help if you so need it."

She faces him, it's his first view to see her closer when he slides next to her in an attempt to assist. Her face is impassive, as in no star-struck gaze of wonder and curiosity, no mellow features of sorrow or discontent, none of emotion-filled expressions displayed on her. He doesn't think too much of it; either Wanda Maximoff is cold or it is uneasy for her with himself in her proximity. The latter, he doesn't blame her for.

"I can handle things myself here." She states, grabbing the cutting board.

"Let me," His palm opens, letting the board fly closer to him as it hovers from her grip, the knife in conjunction with it. "You're the guest, usually conjuration is what I keep myself sustained but seeing that there's a chicken in the oven, I see it's best not to waste these." He begins cutting, only after ingredients are placed and his yellow gloves drift away. "Still, it'd be easier to manifest these wouldn't it?"

She stares at his hands, loose of confined gloves, Stephen is sure. Wanda doesn't speak regarding it.

"Sometimes, practicality is just better." Wanda answers.

They work silently, and he likes that, only kitchen-like sounds of the cutting of vegetables and boiling liquid surrounds them. He thinks she doesn't talk a lot, perhaps socially anxious, or guarded to a fault, or maybe because Stephen is, in fact, a stranger after all. He focuses on the task at hand — which is slicing, and it's all he has to think about with the dangers of accidental damage to oneself from the hands that failed him some times ago. It's why wears them; his gloves that shield the reminder of what he once was, oftentimes, unbearable to even reminisce the greatest failures he endured.

He notices her eyes shift attention, and it's sensible that she's checking on his progress. But it's too focused on his hands as an object of curiosity, rather than the slicing of herbs. Stephen talks of it before uncomfortableness escalates.

"Staring is impolite you know?"

She's too distracted over that it gets the better of her.

"Sorry…" Wanda forms the apology, eyes of green still unfazed that it proceeds on gazing at his scars. "Your hands…"

"They're nothing but scars from an accident, and that's all I'll say on the matter."

He stops her current curiosity abruptly, mercilessly, ends it bitterly in any case she presses further questions in future events — it saves him the trouble of recalling facts. But she mumbles a small, 'right', or so Stephen hears when she bends down on inspecting the heating chicken entrapped in the oven, purposefully avoiding eyes meeting. Purposefully not looking at him, nor the desire to.

The absence of conversation and lack of communication presumes, each active in their own field of duties a good long while. Stephen is the first to finish, with chopped herbs at the ready as Wanda begins the potatoes to mash expertly. Her silence is killing — a treatment of which irks him with guilt to an extent, and maybe he best be gentler with her, considering her own effort to adjust to his presence and participation in one household.

So, Stephen formalizes.

"I wanted to apologize." 

It's then she stops — her head twirls slightly to better hear.

"Perhaps, I was rather uncouth in my method of trying to help you," Stephen begins genuinely. "You seemed troubled when we first met, and honestly, I have little to no understanding of how I can try to help something I don't even know about. You're an enigma, so bringing you here… well, maybe I could have thought of something better for both of us that wouldn't have jeopardized everything we've become accustomed to."

It's a longer period of silence that follows — somehow, the tension rises due to her process of sinking the words in whilst unresponsive of any actual statement that came.

...until she talks.

"In all honesty, I wanted to thank you." 

His reaction did not come unnoticed, and she presses on when he looks at her questioningly. "For, I guess, doing what I was always afraid of doing, you saved me the trouble of doing this myself. And maybe had you not come to help me, well… I guess I'd still be doing what I was always best at doing. Running away."

Understanding comes to him, despite his pursuit of challenging the greater good — that fear is never in much on the aspect of his life excluding when he's lost senses with his hands. But as far back as when he was a surgeon, his fear, or the acknowledgement of it, was subsided — mostly from distractions of the riches he had. The loss of them threatened him, scarred him, made him want to… run. 

And here he finds that he needs to talk of it, or talk of something in regards to it. Just in case that she finds herself situated like how he was.

"We all have our fears, and our instinct tells us to run, perhaps to chase it away or get away from it, but that can't be the case all the time." 

Wanda nods upon agreeing — she holds herself steady, hands gripping herself to balance a seemingly inner conflict. And Stephen's cloak wiggles, to give her assurance in the sudden notice — it disarms easily and wraps around her, the neck snuggles on her head, invading personal space. Stephen chuckles, "It likes you."

The statement is affirmed when it's nodding — the upper segment of the cloak bobbing repeatedly.

"Well, it's cute," the attention it gives pleases Wanda, a soft smile at the garment's puppy love. "Does it have a name?"

He scoffs — a relic of significance brought down to levels of being that needs adoration or just an incessant amount of coddling despite how it shouldn't require anything of it. "It's an artifact of magic, it's an important piece of tool in combat and sorcery that displays the importance of those it chooses to adorn. It doesn't need a name."

Wanda ignores everything, frankly, her indent stroking the fabric that results in it flapping. "What about… _Mateo?_ "

It likes the name — or Stephen thinks it does as the cloak wraps her more representing a hug that had him scoffing another.

"Traitor." He smiles as well.

He carries their meal to the table when the time is right, Wanda is openly distracted with the cloak that had her attention most — Mateo, so it's named after now, pulls her a chair as if acting polite. He compares internally the distinct treatment it pushes to behave in between him and Wanda. But she's smiling, like it's enjoyable, like all is better than intentionally hoped for preceding this. Wanda expects a complimentary dinner, and Stephen waves it away like it's nothing to worry too much, regardless of expectation-wise. Then, a portal opens, a man comes in hastily.

"Shit!" Wong cursed, "Did I forget to-"

"Yes," Stephen utters, reminding of his forgetfulness. "You're free to join in though since it's only the both of us against this defenseless chicken."

His cloak smacks him. And he wants to grumble at its audacity, "And Mateo."

"Who's Mateo?" Wong asked, inwardly counting the platters to match how many were to dine. There are only two so far.

Stephen points the cloak, "It was her idea."

Wanda waves a hand.

Wong blinks in an answer, in unexpectedness. "Huh… well, it's not a bad name."

Wong doesn't stay long, because he has other duties to establish. Only for the while that Stephen Strange is busy, or occupied, for the sake of Wanda. Wong thanks Wanda as he grabs a tender thigh, along with apologetic messages he sends to her of trouble that could have been saved. She mutters the few sentiments of his misremembering orders as something not to worry in regard, or not to be guilty of. Wong thanks her again, pacing fast to another portal created.

They wash plates together when they savored the remains — in terms of efficiency, two is better than one, he suggested, as to make himself significant once more. She gives thanks for helping, and for joining a night with her.

"I should give you my gratitude," Stephen says, scrubbing some sticky substance on the plates. "Admittedly, it wasn't terrible."

"Not terrible, I can live with that," She's the first to clean her pile, to which he raises questions about how washed they are. "I'm living here now. But I don't know anything about you and you have nothing about me, so if we'll be stuck together, we can at least understand each other better."

He thinks she thought this through — or perhaps, it's a stroke of coincidental luck that she sets up accurate scenarios that have him take time off his busy schedule for her. But her effort is acknowledged, as proven out of his own words.

"That sounds wise." 

And he insists on staying to clean the piles, she relents only to slumber early. "Good night, Dr. Strange."

"You're allowed to call me Stephen."

Wanda smiles warmly; he admits embarrassingly that it was a moment of suddenness. "Good night, Stephen."

She leaves to her quarters, the cloak waving a farewell.

And he only chuckles, liking her smile.


	5. Like The Old Days, How Can I Ever Forget?

She doesn't talk to him about it. Instead, she walks away to her own solitary — her room is a standard, but that's the norm. It's small compared to where she lived and a tad unembellished with its vanilla walls. It feels empty without much of her belongings. Nevertheless, she flops to her bed, deeming tonight a success.

Wanda has been honest — that she wants to know her supposed housemate, or get on his good side. It is why she initiated cooking. Why she reveals gratitude towards him. Making dinner felt like a start — a good one, in all honesty.

It's a change from her primitive impressions — Stephen is not as much an eyesore as first intended, rather less irritable than what she presumed from his initial aloofness. Wanda abates her coldish treatment by then, for fairness' sake. Still, befriending with one following the sharing of living space is… strange. And this comes from her stubborn inclination of distancing oneself from surrounding people before she was brought here. Therefore, the lack of companionship.

He _could_ be fun. But that feels more like a question than something factual. Yet, she saw another side of him minutes ago. And there's potential, definitely. 

It keeps her up at night. 

~~~~~~~~~~

He sees her more and more now. Oftentimes, she keeps to herself in her room. His responsibilities hinder time from checkups on her, and she only comes out when necessary. Wong goes talking to her sometimes, which Stephen admits is surprising. Wong is not bubbly and fun; he's a stickler for the rules and minimizes social interactions. And honestly, so is Stephen on occasions. 

He sees Wong once with Wanda — they hit it off instantly due to shared interests, pop culture being among one of many. Stephen hears Wong about his fascination with the Avengers — thus how he'd confirm Wanda from the get-go. The topic is redirected immediately after by said ex-Avenger.

Wanda comes out now and then. And it feels somewhat… nice, weirdly enough. Where the cloak comes to her every greeting, and she chuckles out of it's goofiness. And he says his mornings, or his nightly greetings, which she replies with the same tone of amusement. He conjures her ingredients every now and then and leaves them in the fridge. Only cause she insists to like cooking — and emergencies where neither Wong nor Stephen is present. But there would be extras, most likely. She keeps them in a container, with a note that entails it's for him or Wong. And he'd thank her the next day.

It's a nice routine. One he'd be missing out on today.

Stephen dresses appropriately; a grey diamond pattern sweater over a white shirt with casual jeans. His hair is combed, per usual. It's the kind of dressing in a public setting, it's one where Wanda notices when he walks down the grand stairs, almost in awe that he looks strangely out of his elements. In her opinion, at least.

"You look rather dashing," Wanda remarks, her hand leans on the banister. "What's the occasion?"

"He has to go with his lady friend," Wong answers as he passes by, levitating a few stacks of books that he can't carry more in his arms.

"Christine is with someone else if you recalled," Stephen says, the cloak goes to him before he strokes its fabric, not donning the cape.

"Mateo's not going?" Wanda asks, still inquisitive of the flying relic.

"Normally, I'd like to separate my work from my private life. They might intertwine, but I try to make space without involving too much of anything from my responsibilities. The cloak…" there's a disapproving look from the cloak. If not the stance it takes as it crosses its edges, it's the seemingly annoying look it gives. Even without the apparent face. "...Mateo is too much of a reminder of what I do."

"So you're not bound to stay in here forever?"

He scoffs, "Contrary to your beliefs, I have a life outside my responsibilities and the sanctum."

"Such as?" She queries — curious with hints of brave mockery.

Her audacity is provoking. He smirks as if caught in fabrication. "I visit a friend, talk with her. We enjoy company and we share updates of one another."

"'A' friend." Wanda chuckles. She pets Mateo, who floats freely near. "You don't have much of them do you?"

He deliberates where this is all coming from. Why her sudden interest in him. It's another of her befriending methods, or her act to wholly understand him. Stephen doesn't sense a dubious reason behind — likely, this is who she is upon closer bond. So, he doesn't mind it all too much. 

"One is enough," Stephen comments, easily. There's a shout from the other room — Wong jests of his absence from the friend list. He knows enough that Christine is the unquestionable 'one'. "Fine, make it two." It's Mateo that hits him in the back, appearing insulted. "Three."

Wanda turns after her slight notice of Wong struggling with his lifting. "I'll see you tonight, then."

~~~~~~~~~~

They meet once a week, barely. It's all dependent on their leisure time. She works in a hospital, and he knows the potential chaos that might occur when mishaps erupt — which is every day if you live in New York. And he's a cult member, so she says persistently. But they make time — Christine calls more often than not, he answers with a prayer that she doesn't book a time for them when he's called upon by duty.

Usually, she asks his well-being, as the generous one that she is. Updates she would pester him about — it's either developing romance, the current state of the hospital, or just anything new regarding Stephen in which she'd like to direct the topic towards.

Sometimes, she asks for help. Christine is smart, he knows. She claims he's smarter. She would bring files of her patients — he's sure of the violations she commits as the lacking of privacy for her patients. It's at best, seeking professional advice. At worst, borderline illegal. But he feeds it into his ego; he helps her, once or twice. Then a third. Before it became whenever she gained another problematic case.

He doesn't work there anymore. But he'll stare into the building when passing. The once-believed endless sum of richness he rightfully attained when working, all like a fever dream.

This time, she doesn't come for help. Christine comes to him, more like friend than research partner.

"How's the hospital?"

He asks, sipping his brew. Because of course, they meet in a café — she often chooses the venue. The question is half curiosity and half for his own amusement of knowing the answer legitimately — that it's as stressful as ever.

"If you're worried whether things started going downhill the moment you left, no it hasn't," Christine says, truthful. "We've gone by a year or two without you. Matter of fact is we're better off."

Stephen chuckles, knowing it's legitimate. "I'll give it another year or two before state funding gets cut, don't know how the place is still functioning without me around." The tea is terrible, not like the standards of homebrew in Kamar-Taj. He withstands it. Christine enjoys the place, for whatever reason. "How's everyone?"

She answers subsequently after the laugh. "About the same, although Darlene married the other day. We threw her a party some time ago."

"Ah yes, congrats to her." He tells her like he knows the woman in question. He assumes an intern, or one worker overlooked intentionally. Stephen was quite popular among the doctors, if not the primary talk of gossip, then the ideal subject of many fantasies. He tended to ignore them. "And how's West treating you?"

Christine smiles — he takes it as a good sign.

"Nick and I are doing good. He got me opera tickets. We enjoyed one yesterday but god knows what they were saying." Her laugh tells him much, as if the content wasn't already indicative of a progressing healthy partnership. But she smiles then like it's genuine, and not contrive of any sham. "But yeah, he's fine. We're fine."

He's happy for her.

"And he knows about our meeting here?"

"Yeah. Doesn't mind knowing how close we were." She points out the obvious. "Especially since you've embraced the whole cult thing."

"Not a cult." He replies curtly.

Christine chuckles, eyes focus adoringly at him. It's the recurrent answer he gives subsequent to the time he portals inside the hospital, finding her and when she reprimands him becoming missing for the better part of the year. And she would tell him later, by her judgement, that she doesn't approve of his connections with a cult.

Then, she sees what it's done and what he's done. It's the way the abnormality added to his life did something Christine barely accomplished — revitalizing him back with spirit, albeit not fully. But not like the walking corpse sulking for his life and glory back. He's invigorated, and she doesn't question the anomaly of what he does anymore.

Her finger fidgets with her cup, tracing the rim. She asks him because it's his turn.

"Not that I normally talk nor should know about your love life, but how about yours?"

The question is an odd one — it's a simple answer regardless.

"Frankly, I don't have one. It tends to make me think back to what went wrong between the both of us. Then understanding it was always me that blundered what we had."

Her hand touches his, for comfort if he'd guess.

"You were different then." She reassures, intertwining their fingers. "You're a changed man now, moved on with life. And you do deserve someone." Her head shakes somewhat, as if a memory surfaced. "Just not me."

She lets go afterward, and he confesses internally of missing the touch. It's what he finds empty every so often, nowadays. Affection. Or probably attention. He's one to crave for them, beginning from the praises of the hospital in succession with his achievements. There's less of that now — Wong rarely compliments, and rarely are there people in the sanctum.

It's what he figures coming with his line of duty. It's a feeling he buries deep, lest what his teacher taught him was for naught. 

That he's not the epicenter of everything.

Though that shouldn't mean his pride must be dissolved. He wants recognition, still. And usually, the source would have come from Christine. But she's moved on, so should he, because Stephen is everything except a homewrecker.

"I appreciate your resolve to stay in touch." He says after the fleeting pause.

"You look like you need it," she answers it like it was evident. "Like you need time off from whatever your world is. Something is bothering you though. What's wrong?"

He looks at her across — Christine gives a look, indicating she knows. Or she pretends to know. Her expression is strong and solid, because it's most likely she doesn't take any other answers but the truth. And Stephen considers. Christine would panic, almost certainly. And it's that in mind where the hesitance comes from.

But Christine looks at him again, this time offended. Insulted that he's even processing this long to consider. And he gives in.

"I'm living with someone."

The silence shattered from her cackle. "That's it?"

Unamusement is radiating off of him. "No, not really."

Christine tones down significantly, "What, not a fan of sharing a table."

"Wanda Maximoff." He encourages her to search.

She pulls out her phone, pressing the search bar. "Is that with two F or a V?"

"Two F." Regardless, her name is in the search prediction already.

It's a name Christine heard from passing, one she assumes from chatters of patients — she frequently chats with them, and they talk to her. It's her job. And she likes them, the nice one at least. So it's one she figures is a person with rising popularity, reinforced when her name was in the recommended. It brings her to a site, with full identification and backstory.

"Stephen... She's responsible for Sokovia."

"Mhm."

She reads a passage, more horrid descriptions the further she goes. "Also responsible for the bombing in Lagos."

"That one wasn't her fault."

The hysteria kicks in, mostly from his nonchalance. "Why are you defending her!"

He sighs. It's causing unneeded eyes around, gawking at them like hungry eavesdroppers. It's not the attention he wants. Stephen surveys around, only then were heads turned instantly away from him, acting as if they'd never overhear intentionally. "I'm helping her."

She's stricken by the response. "Why?"

He becomes unresponsive.

In truth, he doesn't know. Well, he does. To prevent calamity. But why specifically for him, it's vague. Wanda is an individual he's come to know existed within a week, yet the circumstances he'd take to help her exceed expectations. Perhaps, his sense of chivalry, to help those in need. Or his knowledge that it's only him that is capable of solving this. It's nothing conclusive, nothing definite. Nothing knowing why she's an exception.

Perhaps, because Wanda is generally an exception. An enigma. _The unprecedented problem._

She doesn't feel like a problem. Not anymore.

It didn't feel like one when he researched her — stories never highlighted, because biasedness tends to dictate what the media should and shouldn't know. She's called many names, but Stephen finds none of them called her broken. Or haunted. Her past is one of tragedies, and in a way, it's relatable to the man that once lost everything. It's why he planted a portal when he found her, much to her obliviousness.

"I _want_ to help her," he looks calm, Christine realized. "Chris, I vowed to heal people as a doctor, to help those that can't help themselves. Old habits die hard, but she's just another that needs help. That needs a safety net."

She scowls, knowing he meant word per word. And she'd assumed he'd agree to her points. Not... _this._ Christine is weary, and he sees it through her thinking that what he's done will return unfavourably. But she exhales.

"Just please, be careful."

~~~~~~~~~

He sees her again that night. She's by the big ocular window when he notices her. She's there, but not really.

Where it looks like she's lost, staring aimlessly through the glass. Hand pressed against it, and she appears to gaze at the abandoned Avengers tower. Stephen considers even greeting her, to leave her be. That fell through when the cloak charges behind him, startlingly and alerting her.

"Stephen?" She calls him after the shock. "You're back."

"Yeah," it's embarrassing to be caught. It's the cloak to be blamed, flying away. "Just got back." There's a bottle of wine standing atop the table, accompanied by glass cups. He's positive it's one he hasn't conjured. "Did you… Buy that?"

"Want some?"

He hasn't drink in some time, a year he thinks. It's still the same answer he gives. "You should really stop going outside the sanctum. It's hard to track you down unless I sense your magical energy, in which case, you wouldn't use."

"You weren't here," she tells him, straight and trying to outsmart. "And you still haven't answered my question."

He's closer to her now, as he just realized. Inching nearby her. He presses his body against the edge of the window, hands folded.

 _"No."_ It's a strong emphasis, plastered with a smirk.

He's watching what she is, which is absolutely nothing. It's dark, and silent, and no one walks the street in this ungodly hour. And he sees the abandoned tower she sees, to sync with what she feels. Still nothing.

"How was it?" She queries. "You and your friend?"

"Smooth, I would say," he states, outright ignoring the outburst. It wouldn't go well. "She's doing fine."

"How'd you two meet?"

"Pairs in the same programme," Stephen says that quickly. It surprises her even. "Same school. Same hospital. We've known each other longer than most."

She looks amazed. "You were a doctor?"

His expression is morphed into curious doubt. "Was the name not a given?"

Wanda's caught in a whole new revelation. "I thought it was something you gave yourself. Not an actual title with an actual license."

He feels mocked, deflated. Because this is one in countless times and he swears the misconception will happen again, much to his dismay. Stephen scoffs, loudly. It's all for her to hear.

She stifles a laugh. Her _audacity._

"The more you know, I guess..." Her words drift. Her eyes are distant, far from here. It's a tendency she does, one he notices immediately. He wonders what is it that pulls her back periodically — what she escapes so commonly to the recesses of her head. "Wanted to be an actress."

"You?" She nods, smiling. Giggling from embarrassment. "An actress, huh. Was it for the glamour?"

"It's every hopeful teenage dream, wouldn't you say?"

"No, not really," he replies, glancing down at her. He realizes that her figure is smaller than his. He towers over her, quite significantly. "Mine was full of books and medicinal theory. Just a lot of practices that dubbed me the strange one."

"As if your name wasn't a given." She comments, grinning.

"How _dare_ you." It's his poor attempt at hiding his chuckles that betrays his threat.

She snorts, laughing. "You've set yourself up, doctor."

She's fitting in. It's progress, if he'd seen one. He's fitting in too, admittedly. He remembers Christine's warnings, unsure of the necessity of it. He's not foolish. And she's not harmless — records forbid that. Records forbid everything that speaks light of her. Records forbid her every kindness as an Avenger. Records forbid she's even human.

It irks him.

She leaves him thereafter, and mumbles her need to sleep. 

He sees her off. 

Of course, Mateo is in view waving farewell.


	6. There's No Place Like Home, It's Not Sweet At All

There's knocking at his door.

It's evidently Wanda. Because who else resides within the sanctum apart from them. But he struggles with paranoia. It remains, as does so in the usual basis that began from his line of work — Stephen checks the magically-enhanced barrier that runs the perimeter of the sanctum. It's still running. Still emitting its security of any paranormal abnormalities. So, not an intruder. Not the inhuman ones. He's skeptical over any ordinary humans entering this building. And if so, why the knocking. He opens his door and her form is shown, ready for another tentative knock.

Her expression is timid, which he hopes changes because she just woke him up.

"Um… I'm sorry, are you busy?"

He groans, rubbing tired eyes. "It's 2:15 AM in the _fucking_ morning. What's this about?"

She finds difficulty in her response — It's unclear, unwanted. Perhaps, uncertainty is sound in every word that escapes her lips. Her hands are folded, and she moves erratically as if unsure. Obviously nervous. He exhales a breath and moves slightly away for her — lest this goes on for an hour or two whilst they stand, and he lets her in his room.

His room is every bit of _Stephen_ — organized and messy. Books and items are appropriately placed, and some are discarded with their lack of care. Candles are placed randomly, some she realized, scented. There's a paper she sees on the ground, filled with his name poorly written. Wanda pretends to not notice it. His bed is wide, wider than hers, and he feels mildly guilty about it — he's over it the next second. Reluctantly, she sits on the couch.

Still, she remains hesitant, her hands fidget mindlessly.

"Sorry, it's stupid. And in hindsight, I should've asked you about this hours ago, or probably the next morning when you've had your rest. But, I'm here now, not sleeping because it's been in my head." Wanda babbles. She stumbles over everything, over little unrelated details. And in the middle of it, her accents are caught intertwining. If only he had proper peace, Stephen would find it entertaining. "Um… I just want to ask. If you know how to message a friend?"

His eyes fight to remain open. "Message who?" 

"A friend." She states quickly, composure calming. "I know it's trivial, but my friend is probably on the other side of the earth with a phone that's been replaced more times than I can count. Do you know a spell… or like, some, mystic art to give a message?"

It reminds him of Christine, oddly. Exposed, natural feelings that slacken logical reluctance or illegitimate appearances. How real Christine smiled at the mention of someone, it's mirrored to Wanda despite certain tentative nature. How Wanda seems to follow her heart, seemingly, and not her logic. Why else does she move so restlessly. She wants something. So she comes to him. 

Why now? He wonders. It's the first she requested, ever since she came. The first time she seeks him for something.

He sighs. Because who is he to deny.

"Pass me that piece of paper." He orders. "There's some on the table."

She does so automatically. Their fingers grazed, she looks surprised that he was so willing. Stephen chants unrealistic words, words he thinks she should learn. But it's something he thinks and not one that he outright says. It's a sign of respect, if anything. One hand is making signs as the other holds the blank paper before the piece turns a shade of gold. He conjures a pen effortlessly, lends both of them to her.

"Write what you want for her there. Once you've finished, just fold it and think of your friend. It'll immediately transport the paper to her."

Wanda looks down. She looks happy. Oddly, he feels it's not real. "That easy?"

"More or less, make sure you don't get the faces mixed up. Might be the real-life equivalent of sending a text to the wrong guy." He opens the door, a hand to insinuate her leave. "Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd like my nap so I can function like a human being."

She stands to leave. "Oh, and Stephen."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." She smiles.

Her smiles hides something else. He shakes the thought away. "What friends are for."

~~~~~~~~~~

She's been staring at it.

The paper feels _taunting._ It's begging her to write, and admittedly, one she can't do on a whim. Because it's an inward dare to not ask the doctor about this for more than once. She decides it to be a one-time thing, and a one-way communication. It's a chance for her to pour, express — share stories that she longed to tell Natasha. It's not supposed to be exceptionally hard, and not one that should be. _But,_ it is.

Or how she's making it hard.

Because Natasha is family. Families are forever — present during struggles. A harmonized pack, a collective bond. Wanda is the least of those.

It's one area she's consistent with — because she's never spared a chance to revert to her past. And so, Wanda skips by any effort that pushes her to become anything but ordinary. She wonders if Natasha's mad, or if the spy is rightfully valid to express herself in an upsetting manner. Too many opportunities she passed; too many chances of righting her wrong.

Natasha calls Wanda family. Wanda wonders if she's even deserving.

Then, there's Stephen. Because what _does_ Wanda say to her regarding him. Or where she lives. Or that she's neglected her, but follows to live with a stranger.

A wizard of New York will garner some strange looks. So too will a magical doctor — more likely to bring anxiety than solace. Her kidnapper turned friend… _absolutely not._

She doesn't want to write, and so she doesn't. Wanda hadn't expected to reach this point, much less. But Stephen surprised her. And she doesn't know if she should be grateful for it — because she wanted him to refuse. Only so she feels contacting Natasha becomes unnecessary. 

But it didn't, and writing to her becomes all the more mandatory.

Wanda wants to sleep instead. She does so, only to forget.

~~~~~~~~~~

He's not a professional — not when it comes to eavesdropping.

By any means, not intentional, and probably never can be for his own purposes. It's a breach of privacy — no matter the snooping he does most often than not. Privacy is a concept he respects, and one trained during his moments in the hospital — that oath of sharing information to be nothing but confidentiality between patient and doctors.

But she never makes things easy. Not when she calls in the echoey hall.

It's the first he's seen her use a phone. Oddly that piece of technology almost everyone should have, yet never considered her with one. It's every day that she ups and does things without the distraction of sticking her nose inches to the screen. It puts perspective on her values with relationships — he thinks it's a first of anything he knows about her, other than what exactly describes Wanda Maximoff as a character.

Stubborn to a fault. Partly Emotional. Direct. Somber in most instances — It's a list he creates in the back of his head in the week she's been by. Supposedly, he should know her. And he does. To an extent. She keeps a lot to herself, and he thinks it correlates or is aligned with her own history. He's never privy about it.

Her panic is palpable. And when she walks in circles with distress as she hears more concerns over her phone, Stephen thinks it can barely be good. If, not at all.

It's when he thinks he should interrupt, or ask the problem. Or even be there to confront the issue because Wanda is exposing herself. He hears her mentioning her alias — her talk is concerning, but not extending to the range of catastrophic.

She's stressed, but takes it well.

There's a breath of farewell and thanks before Wanda hangs it. And it's immediate with how she looks for him because the path she goes is the direction to his room. He meets her halfway when turning the corner. She flinches when nearly bumping into him. Wanda recovers quickly.

"Hey. I know this is sudden but can I borrow you for a moment?"

Stephen pretends like he wasn't within her range seconds ago. "And this is for?"

She raises her phone in a display. "My landlord called. My apartment had issues with the water pipes and now the whole unit is flooding." Wanda tucks her phone in her pocket, face beyond annoyance with a sort of acceptance. "He called to suggest taking my things out before he claims any of them, knowing I don't live there anymore and pay rent. Can you do what you did and bring us there?"

It hits him that she never did ask for her belongings.

"You're asking me to bring your valuables _now?_ "

She shrugs, and he wonders why she never seems to care. Or if there's anything she ever cares about at all. "They were never anything worth a lot. And I've always expected them to be left, at some point or another. But, it's not the time for that yet, so I might as well salvage some."

She's a unique one. He never was a man to judge. 

~~~~~~~~~~

They both step on the foot-tall flood. She's quiet when witnessing the aftermath of her ruined interiors, vastly shocked and immensely sorrowful.

She meant her words — none were off the mark. But it's a year she spent inhabiting her condo — making it hers officially. Marking her own home of cherishable memories she wishes to grow old in, maintains comfort in, and maybe, conceive something new. It's her own world, in ruins and distraught.

Her eyes reminisce, and nostalgia hits. And she seems to look in the distance, as a trait he notices her do on an average basis. The place carries her idea of staying average, included in society. He hears her huff quietly. 

"Welcome to my humble home."

He scowls over the flooding. The boots were brand-new. "Had it not been for the emerging water, I'd say your place looks beautiful."

"It was more of a place to stay than a home." She confesses, palm dragging across her marble slab of a table. "But, it was fun while it lasted."

"Tell me which are still salvageable." Stephen refocuses, proceeding to manifest boxes with a turn of simple hand gestures.

"Anything dry is good enough." She leaves her phone unsecured on the table, then points at the single sofa, drenched in murky water. "Trash or no?"

"It's leather. The material is more likely ruined by this point."

She agrees, looking at him like he'd pointed the obvious. Wanda shakes her head, then proceeds to tread to her unused bedroom. Arms crossed, and she peeks inside, assessing the damage he can't see himself. Stephen opts to put decors inside the boxes, rather than staying impractical throughout. It starts with her accessories — she owns nothing more than some rings settled in a jewelry box. Its condition is rustic, somehow barely noticeable. Then there's the case of her books, undeniably her source of entertainment. It's thoroughly wet, and a bit harder to repair — he mentally notes to fix it if she'd ask for a spell. Stephen inspects the fridge curiously. It was a mistake when a rotting scent permeated the air.

She comes back to him, hands full of her clothing. It gives her more options with the expansion of her wardrobe, rather than the robes and _only_ the robes he'd handpicked for her from Kamar-Taj. She drops them in a vacant box.

The chiming rings in a sudden — her phone vibrates violently as it lightens. The numbers pop with the shaking circle, the sentence below states to drag it upwards to receive the call. She picks it up hurriedly.

He ignores it entirely because he just minds his own business. Her call was short-lived, barely a minute, mostly the other side screaming. Stephen sees that her phone display is still showing, there's an atrocious quality image she'd picked as her home screen. But it looks to be a figure, male. It surprises him because it's a first look at what relationship she has outside the sanctum. Outside her own self-secluded life.

"What was that call about?" He asked when he should have continued minding his own business.

"Landlord." She breathes out the title like it's poison. "Just wanted to make sure the message gets crossed. Aggressively."

"Speaking of those," he closes one filled box. "Did you send that letter?"

She avoids looking at him. "Honestly. I stored the paper."

He raises a brow, doubting at her words but believing it too. "Next time, I'm setting up soundproof walls. Because I don't want the next time happening at my needed sleep schedule." His hand works at taping the box. There's a fleeting moment that he sees her focus shift towards it before meeting his gaze again. "What happened?"

Her expression looks defeated. It's those looks of surrendering a battle. "I don't know. I'm not ready, I guess."

"Not ready for what exactly?"

"For everything." She states strongly. There's a shelf outside her peripheral that he sees tremble slightly. He ignores it almost. "There are too many things happening one after the other. And I don't know what to say because it just feels suffocating. I feel like I was just floating in the pool, calm. Now it feels like I'm drowning in the ocean."

Stephen stores the box away, opening another box to fill it anew. He contemplates before speaking. "Then, maybe you can talk to him about that. It's a feeling. It's something."

"Him?" She asks, thinking to who he's referring. 

"Your friend," He points, signalling the phone and the picture. "The guy on your screen?"

She looks sunken, all immediately after the mention. Wanda looks to have taken a blow, hard and agonizing. It shocks him with her audible, sorrow-filled gasp. It's in an instant how close to a state of hyperventilation she was until she relaxes inevitably. He regrets asking.

"No, no. He's… he's a _twin._ "

She looks suffered as she presses on. "A dead one. His name is Pietro."

He feels the air escaping his lungs. And it's as if he stepped on landmines, ready in detonation. It's a territory not yet ready to be explored, or delved, all due to the raw emotions still lingering with causes to hurt. As a sad reminder. A tragic past. Painful memories.

He finally breathes, feeling capable of talking. "I'm sorry. For your loss."

She nods. He doesn't know if it's acceptance, or her forceful motion to fake a sentiment. "Yeah."

They don't speak more.

~~~~~~~~~~

Wanda says she should have asked him for more favours when they entered her plain room. He… doesn't know how to respond about it, because he carries the boxes with his own magic. He said he'd help, not be a butler.

Of course, she's joking.

"You should learn magic."

He brings it up abruptly. There's melancholy that splashes her face in the split second before she straightens, back polished, and deals it like a joke. Or something of amusement. Because she's made it clear. Verbally clear. Physically clear she has a distaste of her own potential. She scoffs at him, cutting open the first box that lands in her room. 

"And _you_ should smile more, doc." She brings out her pillow that she throws to her bed. 

"I'm serious." He states assuredly.

"I'm serious too, doc. Keep that look and your crease will stay as wrinkles." Wanda calls him with titles. It's a cautionary move, to say she's pissed without exposing it. Or disappointed. Either way, unhappy.

But she keeps her irritation mild, controlled. Because those are things she _can._

Stephen says these things as suggestions. Offers he thinks she should consider than outright shun them. Dent her walls, at the very least.

He asks her this, "Then what would you recommend doing?"

She blinks, her answer straightforward. "Nothing." She hangs her clothing inside the closet, her library of clothes expanding than simple robes he picked out from Kamar-Taj. "Or we can go and extract my powers from inside my body, if that's an option."

He doesn't miss the small plea from her line, wishing it was an option. It's not. Probably won't be.

"Nothing else?"

"We've been doing what you told me to do. I live here for who knows how long it will be." She says it harshly, a tad too aggressive. Unintentionally. "It's not ideal, but I don't mind the circumstances," Wanda admits. It's at least a person she can talk to. Or one to stop an evil she is not adequate to handle solely.

He's a safety measure, more or less. 

Stephen drops the last of her boxes. "If you need anything else, I'll be in my study."

She hums. He takes it as she understands.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome and highly appreciated :)


End file.
